


Undeserving

by kakashikrazy256



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, I Don't Even Know, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Self-Hatred, Sickfic, batman doesn't know how to help but he's trying his best, he's a mess and loves running away from issues, i don't think john's eaten slept or stopped once since they caught neron-des
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:08:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24388705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kakashikrazy256/pseuds/kakashikrazy256
Summary: Batman finds John Constantine stumbling through Gotham at night, looking utterly lost.Post-LOT Season 4 Finale
Relationships: John Constantine & Bruce Wayne, John Constantine/Desmond
Comments: 26
Kudos: 133





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven’t published anything in years but I’ve been binge-watching Legends and I love it very much. Kinda rusty but I hope it will be an interesting read. 
> 
> I have no idea which continuity or timeline I want this Batman to be from but he’s here :D Maybe just a mashup of whatever I want him to give to the story heh. In the LOT timeline, this takes place right after season 4’s finale. 
> 
> I just love me some Constantine angst :) 
> 
> Enjoy!

John’s socks squelch in his shoes as his legs shuffle him through another puddle on the uneven concrete of Gotham’s streets. 

He swears under his breath, shuddering at the wet but he stomps on. Always. Always the bloody damn socks. Everywhere he goes. Fuckin’ puddles. Of water, of rank sewage, of demon organs. He’d always be stepping in it whether he wants to or not. 

A shiver runs down his spine. The coat feels heavy, saturated with water droplets that were still hailing from the rumbling grey skies. Streaks of blinding light flash occasionally, making him wince.

“Always picking the best vacation spots, Johnny.” His voice is low and sounds like a pathetic croak. He bites his lips, scrunching his brows and stops talking. 

He had run away. 

_No._ He shakes his head. _He had not._

He had merely left. Technically his business with the Legends was done right? Neron was destroyed. _Des_ is _-_ he stumbles as the name _thefacethevoicetheeyesthesmilethe_ **_everything_ **flashes through his head. A shuddered ghost of a breath leaves his mouth. 

Des is gone. 

Raymond is back. He had looked disoriented but no worse for wear, which was pretty bloody good for someone who had been mucking about in the depths of hell for weeks. 

And Nate.

Nate is alive.

Nate had come back to life through the power of friendship and love, brought about by a fucking song and handholding spectacle. As if life was some fucking fairy tale. 

He lets out a soft laugh that sounds weak, his lips trembling. It’s bloody baltic out here and his outfit isn’t doing him any favors in keeping the chill out. Gotham had never been particularly welcoming to him. The damn bird had enough poison festering under her skin and never did appreciate John adding more rot every time he set foot within her domain. 

Love and songs bringing back a soul taken by an abomination of hell. A joke. An absolute fucking joke. The more he mulls over it, the wider his eyes get at the incredulity of it all. His head throbs in time with his footsteps like a bass drum accompanying the soft snare of rain. He squeezes his eyes shut and keeps moving.

But it makes sense. Some people are just deserving of miracles and second chances. Nate is a good guy. A good guy willing to sacrifice himself for his best mate. Something that John has never been able to do. Somehow, the one that gets sacrificed is always someone else.

Names fly through his mind. Nat, Astra, Gaz, Zee, Chas, Zed, Nora, Des, Raymond. Their faces, their final expressions when they realized he had once again betrayed and disappointed. 

Second chances. It’s not that he’s never gotten a second chance. Rather, it’s that he’s gotten too many of them. And he has wasted every bloody opportunity ever given to him. Like the useless bastard killer he’s always been since birth. 

He keeps walking but he doesn’t know where he’s headed. He had sodded off the moment the Legends returned to the Waverider. Everyone had been too excited and all over each other to notice. Although the high energy and general giddiness from the victory had still been running through their veins, it was far from over. Sharpie had already been rambling about the repercussions and fallout of the entire mess at Washington and Heyworld. 

He took that as his cue to leave and never look back. The Time Stone sits heavy in his soaked trench coat. He had pulled it from Nero- _Raymond’s_ pockets when the man had hugged him afterward, whispering his thanks. John had swallowed and stayed silent. The First of the Fallen’s illusion of Raymond knew the truth behind the choice John had made. But the real Raymond had remained oblivious to John’s betrayal. If Astra had taken his hand and said yes back there... Raymond’s eager words and genuine gratitude had made John want to vomit. 

He left.

Everything may have turned out all peachy in the end but he had still sacrificed Raymond for Astra and Nate for Raymond. 

Nate. 

John had nodded wordlessly when Nate had approached him before they all headed into the Heyworld Stage Tent. His eyes were fierce with a determined glint that put his occasional steel skin to shame. 

_Help Neron kill me. Please, Constantine._

And John had listened. No. He had _expected_ it. He had sealed Nate’s fate the moment he had mumbled out the possibility of making Neron break the deal. Sara’s glare had pierced through John even as he refused to meet her eyes. She knew what he had just done, any leader worth their salt would’ve seen his intent. His insidious idea disguised as “just another option” had implanted itself in Nate’s head. Even as they moved forward with Operation Heyworld, Nate would’ve had this method in the back of his mind. Nate loves Raymond and John _knew._ He knew Nate would come to him eventually when stupid Plan A went tits up, allowing all the pieces to fall into place. Just as he wanted. Because John Constantine always had a plan. 

In the chaos of the dragon’s appearance, he met eyes with Nate, who nodded at him solemnly. John’s hands trembled as he raised it towards him. A quick double glamour spell was whispered out in the throes of terrified screams of bystanders. 

And it had worked perfectly. Of course it bloody did. John knew demons and all the intricate rules that came with deals. He knew Nate’s death by Neron’s hands would have truly been the only way to defeat him. The Legends were an optimistic lot but that brand of naive hope never penetrated through John’s firm grasp of the harsh truth of reality. No number of pep talks and team pizza parties could’ve done so. 

He left.

Neron was gone. The gate to Hell will remain closed. He didn’t need the Legends anymore. And they certainly didn’t need him. 

_You’re running, you twit._ His mind taunts in his own insufferable voice and he coughs, water shaking from damp hair and shoulders. _You didn’t want them to confront you about what happened with Nate. What you forced him to consider._

_Sleeping with the devil has made you into one helluva dealmaker yourself, aye?_

His vision blurs and he stops moving for the first time since he had arrived in Gotham. 

The conversation would’ve been very different if Nate had stayed dead and soulless. 

_And you were afraid that the conversation with the Legends would’ve happened anyways. Old Johnny boy ran with his bloody tail between his legs like the wretched dog he is. What else is new?_

“That’s right, I’m a nasty piece of fucked up work. Nothin’ new.” He murmurs and the voice stays quiet at the soft confession. He puts another soaked foot forward and turns a street corner.

He didn’t know why the Time Stone brought him to Gotham. He hadn’t exactly been thinking of a destination when he squeezed the stone. He had only one thought at the time.

_Get me the hell away from all this._

He supposed Gotham is as good of a destination as any. No one would think to look for him here. The old archaic magic flows through the city in the background but it does little to prick at John’s mind. The evil of men here is enough to account for the suffocating atmosphere that permeates the streets. The powers of the old are content to sit back and witness man’s destruction of itself, biding their time to pick up the pieces. It is only on the rare occasions that he stops by this city, usually dragged by the ear by some prick at the Justice League for some typical bullshit that would do the world’s head in. It’s always messy and ends up with every party properly devoed up. 

But everything seems supernaturally quiet in Gotham’s veins tonight. He’s relieved. Sluggishly, he takes stock of his person. His brain hasn’t stopped assaulting his skull. The sharp pains give each step he takes some unnecessary grief, forcing him to slow down. He’s sure he’s gotten concussions on top of concussions at this point with how much everyone loves throwing him against walls and ceilings like some ragdoll. His eyes sting, he doesn’t remember when was the last time he had properly slept. Between freeing Des and the final confrontation with Neron, he’s been moving nonstop. Nora had needed a phoenix feather and fighting that overgrown chicken hadn’t been easy.

He had also been flitting between extreme conditions that left his body reeling - from nearly turning into a bloody popsicle in the Ice Age to throwing himself into the boiling smogs of Hell before he even had the chance to thaw out completely. The only times he’s had some shut-eye were when he was forced into it with the help of a good knock to the noggin. 

His muscles are bloody sore and spasm erratically. He can feel the tremors of his hands through his coat pockets. Gotham whispers against his ears, the cutting wind making him hunch forward slightly. The rain slides down his neck and down his back; he’s cold and warm at the same time.

Ahh, the telltale signs of magic exhaustion. Ever since he joined the Legends, he’s been overexerting. Superheroing isn't his style. His usual jobs are more of the consultant nature, small spells, and the occasional exorcism. He’s a dabbler in the arts; his true skill lies in his quick tongue and, he’d like to think, scruffy looks that will always attract humans and other beings alike. Somewhere along the way, people have started getting the idea that he was some knockoff comic book wizard who could pull force fields and fire out of his arse every other second. Eradicating damned beings and opening Hell portals are draining. The constant spells take a toll. And the price just keeps hitching up in this dogshit economy. 

Where is he even going? He looks up, staring aimlessly at the rain that assaults him with no pause. He didn't exactly have a place to stay here. He'd be lucky if he could find a hostel in this part of town. There is always the House...his stomach made a series of twists and turns. As if he could pull himself there, or even pull it to him in this state. 

He coughs again, feeling it sting deep in his chest this time. _Bollocks, everything fucking sucks._

_Kumquats in honey are good for coughs and sore throats,_ the voice whispers soothingly. Except its not his own voice.

_Des._

He trips again and his hands find a wall to brace against as his vision swims. 

Wonderful Des who would always have the perfect drink and meal ready whenever John stumbled back into their little apartment with a few more pieces missing than before he had left. Des who would silently patch him back up without a hint of fear or disappointment in his soft eyes. Des who would listen when John chose to ramble about what had happened and would listen when John chose to stay silent. Des who would press his lips against the junction between John’s neck and collarbone afterward before ushering him to bed rest. Des who would hold him firmly when the horrors came back in the form of stifled cries and silent tears in the middle of the night. 

Des, who had thought John Constantine was something worth loving and sacrificing everything for. 

_I don’t want anything from you._

The rain is suddenly warm and his face feels uncomfortably hot. He shuts his eyes. 

Good. The only thing that John gives is pain and death anyways. He’s glad Des was finally able to see it and distance himself away for good. 

_It doesn’t change anything._

It was better this way. 

He stands, pressed against the brick wall, for a long time. His mind wanders, grasping for the old nostalgic memories that he knew to be warm and safe. 

Des’ warm skin against his own. The grotesque holes that decorated Des’ head under Neron’s influence. Hands intertwined and pressed against the sheets. Bruises in the shape of fingers against his throat when Neron holds him up in the air with magic. Des' smile that John could feel in every breath-taking kiss. The manipulative sneer that looks _wrongwrongwrong utterly **wrong**_ on Des-

He gasps, pushing himself away from the wall and immediately regretting it when black spots dance about his field of view. 

“F-fuck.” He gasps out, pressing his palms against his eyes. It hurts to think, it hurts to imagine. Every good memory he has ever made with Des is followed by ones tainted by Neron’s hands. Des’ last words at the Time Bureau replaces every single syllable ever uttered to him before.

_I knew what I was getting into, and I won't abandon you._

_You don't deserve to suffer._

_I'm not leaving, Johnny._

_You deserve to be happy Johnny._

_It's not your fault._

_I love you, John Constantine. And don't you forget it._

He couldn'- _he couldn't_ lose those pretty words. He couldn't lose the sentences he's been replaying over and over in his mind since that damned night, clutching onto them like a dead man desperately pulling at the noose around his neck. Taintedtaintedtainted it's all _bloody **tainted**._ The warmth came with fractures where the cold truth seeped through and drowned out the fire. He couldn't remember his happy moments with Des without being reminded of the aftermath. 

_You don’t deserve those memories. Not after what you’ve done._ His mind hisses without mercy and his hands move to grasp at his hair, eyes wide and darting around.

“P-please. It’s...it’s-” He’s stuttering between each heaving gasp of air. 

**_It’s all I have._ **

_That’s something we’re both gonna have to live with._

It fucking hurts.

Something pushes against his shoulder and he stumbles back. His arms drop to his sides, and he can’t bring himself to look up.

“What’s a dude like you doing out here in the rain? Girlfriend kicked ya out of the house or something?” 

Des is right. He’s going to have to live with his stupid decisions for the rest of his days. 

“Aw, is he crying?” 

A hand smacks his face tauntingly and he tilts his head away. He’s so bloody tired. 

“He is! The fucking pussy.”

“Think a few tears is gonna get you some pity points? Cmon dumbass, give us all you’ve got.” 

Another shove and he nearly trips to the ground. 

“I’m a bit skint at the moment, lads.” His voice doesn’t sound like his own and it’s followed with a cough that makes the world spin. He’s pretty sure Calibraxis had skimped his wallet during their little torture session before he was subsequently turned into fairy dust by Nora. 

“The fuck does that mean? Dumb Brit, stop wasting time!” Another shove. 

He vaguely considers fighting back. His hands feel too heavy to lift up and his body laughs at the thought of mustering up even a drop of magic. 

_Do it. Use the rest of what you’ve got. Who knows, maybe you’ll finally kick the bucket._ He begins murmuring a phrase under his breath, feeling a familiar glow in his hands. _Or maybe…_ the voice sounds coy and he freezes. _Maybe you might just bloody send some poor bloke like Gary over so they can rob him blind instead. Finding scapegoats to sacrifice. You’re the master of that, Johnny._ He chokes on his words. 

He’s hoisted up by his lapels and pulled towards a face he doesn’t recognize. 

“If you’ve got no money, you’re coming with us.”

“Someone somewhere has got use for that pretty mug of yours.” 

Everything is fuzzy and the rain sounds like an echoing backdrop against everything. There’s a low rumble behind him and he wonders if these gentlemen brought a dog or something along to bite him in half. 

“Shit.”

“Why the fuck is he here-”

“L-let’s just go.” 

His shirt is released and he’s shoved once more. He watches the shadows scurry away into the alleys of Gotham without blinking. Even scum doesn’t want to touch him, he considers with a ghost of a smile. 

There’s another shadow in the corner of his eye. He’s so fucking cold. 

He just wants Des to hold him and tell him everything is okay. That it has all been fake. That the past year has just been an elaborate trap by some dream demon. 

Someone’s talking but he can’t hear it. 

He would break free any minute now and knock the sod back into hell. Then he’d go home and tell Des all about it over dinner and whiskey. Then Des would kiss him on the forehead and tell him he’s glad John’s okay.

He’d tell John that he loves him.

Something touches him on the shoulder, firm but a tad softer than the previous shoves had been. But it’s enough. He’s had enough.

John’s knees buckle and he falls, eyes closing. 

He’s tired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bat's perspective and more next chapter :)
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! This is my first time writing in a while and my venture into this fandom. Comments are loved and appreciated <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Constantine's profile is a headache for Batman to sort through. Yet the man currently in front of him is so different from the man he knows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m glad you guys liked chapter one, here’s part 2 :D 
> 
> Reiterating that the story canon is probably a mismatch of random details from multiple continuities and of my own making. I blame the multiple destruction of timelines and universes that Arrowverse is so fond of :) But the most recent iteration of Batman that I’ve gotten into is the TellTale one. 
> 
> It’s so hard to mesh ArrowVerse John with the John from HellBlazer, JLD, even from the NBC Constantine because ArrowVerse John is just vibing on a timeship nowadays lmaooo. Man's legit just big chilling. Justice League? Responsibilities? I don’t know her. 
> 
> Waiting for the day the Waverider gets Superman on call, politely asking John to please come out of hiding and help out with something. Also, Batman’s mad at you because you never even activated the WayneTech phone he sent to your house last year for Christmas. Uhh yeah no phone no stress, Clarkie. Tell Batsy to keep crying. The Legends watching this entire exchange: :000000 
> 
> Anyways, hope you guys enjoy :)

Patrolling during storms always puts Batman on edge.

His gloved fingers drum against the steering wheel as the Batmobile glides through the wet pavement with a near-silent hum.

One would think crime would take a pause for the night when there are mini-oceans swirling waves around every street corner. However, he's seen enough people with haunted looks in their eyes and torn clothing as they stumbled out of alleyways, soaked and mute with shock. He's pressed against enough bleeding wounds while tipping off the police and EMT, barely able to hear fading ragged breaths over thunder. He's tumbled with enough bastards into puddles to know.

Crime doesn't stop for the weather.

He squints through the windshield, his eyes tiredly watching the wipers move back and forth. Still, this storm is much more severe than what Gotham's used to. The rain practically falls in sheets and floods the streets that dipped on the low side. Thunder cracks at a steady pace that vibrates deep in his chest while the flashes of lightning make him wince. Surely, even the worst of the worst would look out the window tonight and decide they can't be asked to follow through with whatever dastardly plan they had in mind.

He glances out his window, the HUD in his cowl analyzing the things he sees and feeding him information. This particular street is clear.

Fortunately, things have been quiet in Gotham tonight. The only people he's seen have been the homeless, curled in on themselves in an attempt to stave off the cold and wet. For them, he had prodded them along with soft but firm directions to the nearest shelter, slipping a couple of bills in their pocket.

Batman shifts in his seat, glancing at the clock blinking on the dash. It's nearly 3 in the morning. He turns the wheel, moving the vehicle into a new block towards home. Perhaps calling it a night would be the best course of action.

His cowl lights up with new information before his own eyes have gotten a chance to register what lies ahead. He slows the Batmobile down a bit, taking the chance to assess the situation.

Thermal imaging shows six humans several yards ahead. He narrows his eyes at the positions. Five of them are surrounding one. He turns the infrared off, leaning forward in his seat to watch. He can barely see the center of the mini-huddle through the rain, but he sees the movements of the one in the center being jostled and pushed around.

Harassment? Blackmail? Mugging? Kidnapping? He wonders with a frown.

He straightens when he sees the group disperse from the circle. The one in the center— _male, short hair, long coat_ —getting shoved towards an alley that is lit up. A car. They are taking him to a secondary location. Yeah, not on Batman's watch.

He presses down on the accelerator, feeling the Batmobile growl as it prowls closer. He flashes his headlights once, rolling closer and closer to the group. With some satisfaction, he watches the illuminated expressions of shock and _fear_ in the men's eyes grow with his incoming approach.

The one with the grip on the coat-wearing man loosens his fist and backs away. They all do. With one last hard shove, making the man stumble back, they rush into the alleyway. A moment later, a car pulls out with a skidding screech. It races down the street, disappearing around the corner. The Batmobile records the license plate and details automatically, and Batman is content to leave it at that for now. He glances at the man who is still standing motionless on the street; he has more pressing concerns to deal with at the moment.

He parks the car and pulls the door open, grimacing at how the raindrops immediately start to assault the leather interior. He quickly closes the door behind him, making his way around and towards the man. Rain is already starting to bead on his cowl and drip down his chin.

He opens his mouth, some gruff inquiry on the tip of his tongue. But the words die on his lips when he gets close enough to truly look at the man before him. From his car and through the rain, he had only been able to make the cursory observations on the man's appearance. But now…

Clumped blond hair that looks copper when soaked and highlighted by the Batmobile's headlights.

The long coat— a dark tan trench coat that hangs heavy and slick against the trembling body.

The familiar stubble on a strong jawline that looks a bit thin at the moment.

"Constantine." He breathes out, eyes impossibly wide under his cowl.

John Constantine. Exorcist, demonologist, and Master of the Dark Arts. He still remembers the wrinkled business card that sits among the cards of Clark Kent, Barry Allen, and others in one of his office drawers. Constantine had flicked it at him during their first meeting with a wink and grin. Batman still remembers scowling at the alcohol on his breath at the time.

John Constantine. A powerful warlock and associate of many other powerful magic users such as Zatanna Zatara and Boston Brand. The Leader of the Justice League Dark. The current caretaker of the House of Mystery.

John Constantine. Smoker. Alcoholic. Witty. Conman. Smartass. Arrogant. Unreliable.

Constantine's profile is full of contradictions and headaches. Yet, even as Batman runs these attributes through his head, he can't correlate them to the man currently standing in front of him.

Constantine looks...exhausted. Tired to the very depth of his bones in a way that only happens when the world has put someone through the wringer several times before spitting out a dried-out husk.

This isn't the Constantine that he's used to seeing during the infrequent Justice League meetings. The Constantine he knows is suave and a bastard through and through. He would have all the answers. And even if he didn't, he sure acted like he did. So sure and confident that you couldn't help but believe him. That's just the kind of man he is. He rarely shows up unless being hailed or dragged in, fighting tooth and nail, hungover, and an absolute delight to no one.

So why is John Constantine here? In Gotham? When no one had called for him? And why did he look like _this_?

His cowl blinks urgently at him, throwing information at his face. Constantine is thoroughly soaked, his entire body hunched over and shivering so hard that Batman can see the water droplets flinging themselves off. But he's also _burning_. The thermal scans are showing elevated temperatures, and Batman's certain he would be able to feel the heat through his gloves if he pressed his palm against Constantine's forehead.

But he doesn't touch him.

He doesn't know if he should.

"You're a bit far from Europe, Constantine." He says instead, hoping that would prompt the other man into saying something. An explanation, a not-funny quip, an excuse. Hell, anything would be preferable to the low sound of chattering teeth and soft mutters that has Batman straining himself to understand to no avail.

But Constantine doesn't say a word to him. Batman moves to stand directly in front of him, frown deep on his face. Constantine's eyes don't even flicker to follow his movement. They look dark and unfocused, unblinking as rain gathers on the dark lashes in large drops. His lips are moving; Batman isn't sure if they're forming words or they're just trembling _that_ hard.

Batman reaches up, pressing a button on his cowl.

"Constantine?" He tries again, using Bruce's voice this time.

A loud clap of thunder makes him flinch, ears ringing. Constantine didn't even react. Something is _wrong._

"John, what happened?" Batman finally moves, reaching up to gently shake Constantine on a shoulder. He needs him to snap out of it so he can finally get some answers on what the hell happened on this shitty night.

Constantine is tilting backward.

**! —**

Batman doesn't even get a moment to think.

He grabs Constantine by the arms, yanking him forward until his forehead hits his armored chest platings with a dull thud. Constantine starts sliding down, so Batman shifts his grip until he's holding up the other man's weight completely.

He doesn't move for a moment. The rain continues to roar down on them, but Batman can't hear anything but his own heartbeat and Constantine's laboured breathing.

With a loud swallow, he spares a glance down to stare at the crown of messy blond hair. He can't feel anything through the plating but he knows Constantine is burning up with fever. His tech isn't advanced enough to give a diagnostic, so he needed to get Constantine somewhere dry. Fast.

He manages to move them both to the curb, cursing under his breath at how hard it is to open the passenger door while trying to keep Constantine from slipping out of his grasp. He gets the door open somehow, and maneuvers Constantine into the seat. Batman silently pulls the seat belt over Constantine's chest and fastens it. The unconscious man's head lolls to hang down, chin against his chest as water drips from his wet hair. He keeps the faint tinge of annoyance at the ruined seats down, shutting the door.

His own costume is waterproof; he's glad he chose to leave the cape in the car before venturing out. He slips into the driver seat, coaxing the Batmobile out of its slumber. Soon, he's back to cruising through the quiet Gotham streets towards Wayne Manor.

When the vehicle pulls onto the endless highway, he glances towards his right. He can still hear Constantine's breathing, loud and airy. His chest is heaving up and down, his brow furrowed and eyes twitching under the lids in a troubled sleep.

He reaches for the dashboard, swiping until he reaches the number he's looking for. He presses call.

The call tone barely lasts for three seconds before the other end picks up.

"Al?" His voice changer is still off.

"Bruce? Are you alright? Did patrol go well?" Alfred's steady voice helps loosen some of the tense muscles in his shoulders. He lets out a sigh, leaning back in his seat.

"Had a hiccup along the way. I'm not hurt, don't start worrying." He adds on quickly, feeling an amused smile grace his lips at Alfred's indignant huff.

"And what is the nature of this 'hiccup'?" Alfred presses on, and Bruce turns his head to stare at Constantine again.

"I ran into a...colleague. He's injured and I'm not sure how severely. I'm bringing him back home. We should be there in about ten minutes."

"Should I prepare for your arrival as Bruce or…"

Bruce's grip on the steering wheel tightens as he thinks. Batman should be the logical answer. While John Constantine may know his identity, they are strictly business colleagues, not even friends. He's only ever appeared to Constantine as Batman. Taking him to the Cave and tending to him in the Cave should be the right course of action.

He looks at Constantine again.

He thinks of the Cave. Damp and cold on good days. Downright depressing and miserable on others.

He exhales, lifting one hand to rub at his eyes, only to lower them when his fingers hit hard plastic.

"I'll park the car in the Cave. But I'm taking him upstairs. Could you prepare some things for fever and grab the first aid?" He twitches when he sees Constantine cough and shiver. "Dry clothes too. He should fit my size."

"Very well, Bruce. I await your arrival." With that, the call ends. The car is silent, save for the soft patters of rain from the waning storm and Constantine's murmurs.

Bruce begins to hum, allowing his mind to drift as the Batmobile swims through the dark road towards home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *slams table repeatedly* John in Bruce’s clothes John in Bruce’s clothes John in Bruce’s clothes—
> 
> I’ll try to have the next chapter up soon. This fic should end up being about 4-5 chapters. 
> 
> I hope it has been enjoyable so far :’D Comments are appreciated and loved. Thank you for reading, see you guys next chapter <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce treats John’s wounds and broods. Some things don’t add up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, welcome to chapter 3. A bit longer than the previous ones. I’m glad y’all have been enjoying it so far and I appreciate all your kudos and lovely comments so so much ^^ 
> 
> CW, give John his tattoos you cowards. I know budget is a problem but maybe John can settle with an off-brand trench coat instead of a Burberry one so we can afford some more tattoos :^) 
> 
> In terms of LOT Season 4’s Finale, I think there was like a day between John’s return from Hell to the opening of Heyworld. Did my guy like...go to sleep? Eat something? Treat his million wounds? I think the fuck not. He just took one look at the magical creature hotel shitfest happening on the ship, listened to the Legend’s plan...then walked to the galley, grabbed as much alcohol as he could carry, and just locked himself in the library. It’s not that bad, he told himself. Fucking clown. 
> 
> This was going to be a direct chapter of just Bruce tending to John’s fever and injuries. But then I decided to let Bruce do his brooding and get into Justice League shenanigans/tangents that are likely not canon. 
> 
> Enjoy :D

The rest of the trek back to Wayne Manor occurs without further incident. Bruce hums through two songs while Constantine remains trapped in his fevered dreams. The storm is near gone, leaving behind only the softest whispers of raindrops against his windshield. He considers calling someone to let them know Constantine is with him, and that he is not exactly doing well. 

His hand scrolls through his contacts on the Batmobile’s dashboard, his lips pursed. Names fly by, and none of them stand out to him as someone that knows or  _ likes _ Constantine enough to take action. 

He hovers over Zatanna’s information for several minutes, eyes taking in her long inky waves and blood-red lipstick shining on the photo ID. He vaguely remembers Hal’s conspiring expression when he had told Bruce about something messy going down in New York involving Constantine, Zatanna, and one Nick Necro. 

It had been convoluted and chaotic, as magic tends to be. The details had been and still are hazy at best. All they knew was, whatever happened, had been bad enough for the Justice League Dark to cut contact for months. The House had disappeared and no one could find it for a while. Even though the issue had been resolved, from what Bruce gathered, Zatanna and Constantine are no longer, “a thing”, as Hal had put it. And that had been all the thought Bruce put into the matter. 

He sighs, swiping his hand. The contact list swirls away, leaving only the current time glowing in the dark. Seems like he’s going to have to handle this solo. At least until Constantine wakes up and gives him a number to call. 

If Bruce had thought hard enough then, he’d realize that post-New York, he started seeing less and less of Constantine at meetings involving their heroic organization’s Dark division. Bruce recalls a figure sitting at the edges, pale and oddly silent, in an old trench coat that soon became his signature. Then, he recalls not seeing him again at all after that. Zatanna had steadily replaced Constantine as the head of magical and supernatural expertise, and no one really questioned it. She is extremely knowledgeable, powerful, and far more agreeable to work with. In fact, Bruce had rather enjoyed her presence over that of Constantine’s. They had all accepted it and moved forward. Until today, Constantine hadn’t crossed his mind in nearly two years. 

But that’s just it. Bruce never really questions things that involve the Justice League Dark. Their methods are difficult to understand and apply reasoning to. They go against Batman’s cold logical rationale. Zatanna is leagues better than Constantine in terms of planning and keeping Bruce in the loop. But even then, she would sometimes get that crazy glint in her eyes that at this point, seems to be something all magicians inherently have. Magic is supposedly filled with rules and conditions, yet every single sorcerer he’s met has been anything but disciplined. If Bruce ponders on it for too long, the headaches sneak up on him. Magic. Completely ridiculous. 

_ “You’re telling me, Batsy, that you can accept aliens with laser eyes and inhuman strength. You can accept blokes that will circle the bloody Earth in seconds, but a little pixie dust gets your cape in knots?”  _ Constantine’s amused jeer from years ago rings in his mind, and he shakes his head, glaring half-heartedly at the unconscious Constantine of the present. 

The man doesn’t acknowledge his annoyance. His chest continues to move up and down shallowly, head tilted towards Bruce. His mouth is slightly ajar, jaws slack. It’s hard to see much more inside the dark car. At that moment, Bruce finds himself suddenly struck with an emotion he can’t identify. His stomach flips, his brows furrowed. He turns his attention back towards the road, quickly moving the Batmobile towards the correct lane for taking the next exit. 

John Constantine...His fingers drum a nonsensical rhythm on the steering wheel. He remembers the initial profiling he had made earlier. Those had been some of details he had written down in his own personal database on the people he’s become acquainted with. He had been more than thorough. These profiles include their origins, their powers, their  _ weaknesses  _ and psychological evaluations. He had more information on his colleagues in his files than most government searches would yield. 

But there are some things that never made it into his computer. Bruce would never tell anyone outright, but he knows how Clark’s been secretly taking sushi-making classes to surprise Lois for their 5 year anniversary. He always keeps some chocolate milk in the Justice League fridge because, for some odd reason, Diana loves that stuff with cereal as a midnight snack. Barry’s coffee preferences are always changing. Some days he’d want it black and bitter. Other days, the sugar wouldn’t even be fully dissolved with how much he’s dumped into the cup. Bruce always sends the latest WayneTech device to Dick at the Titans Tower. Because he knows Dick would hand them off to Victor, who would then take them apart, add modifications, and put them back together. By the next day, his phone would be ringing with notifications from Dick, filled with videos of loud shouting, smoke, and cut off curses for Bruce to come pick up his trash. 

Random details continue to pop into Bruce’s head followed by memories, bringing a soft smile to his lips. These are just some of the many things he’s come to learn about his teammates over the years of crime-fighting and world-saving. Things have quieted down considerably in the past few years, to the point where Justice League meetings have become infrequent and annually rather than monthly. Everyone agreed that it would be better to focus on the localized crime in their own territories for now. If there is ever a terror that threatens life on a global scale again, they knew where to find one another. Yet...he looks back at Constantine again. 

Bruce couldn’t say he knows...anything about Constantine beyond what’s written in his profile. In fact, he hasn’t bothered to update it recently with any new information in a while. What has Constantine been up to in the past few years anyways? How did he end up in Gotham? And what happened? Who or what did this? Reduced the infamous John Constantine to the lost and broken man he had seen in the middle of the street tonight? 

The Batmobile enters the cleverly camouflaged entrance to the Cave. He sits up straighter, concentrating on the narrow twists and turns in the pathways towards the center of the hideout. And why does all this even matter to Bruce? Why is he working so hard to help Constantine, and why is he so hung up over the fact that they’re more like strangers than colleagues after all these years? The emotion from before bubbles up again, and he clenches his jaw tightly.  _ Regret _ . He identifies it coolly. 

The car comes to a stop at its designated spot. Everything gets quiet the moment he shuts the car engine. Bruce exhales slowly, reaching up to pull at his cowl. It comes off with a click, and he immediately rubs his hands over the indent lines that are going to one day end up as permanent grooves in his face. Or so Damian says. 

He gets out of the car with a stretch, wincing at how the cracks seem to echo off the cavern walls. The entire interior is lit up automatically; Alfred would’ve known he was home the moment the Batmobile entered the cave.  _ Good,  _ Bruce thinks as he shuts his side of the door and walks to the passenger side. He could get this done quickly and efficiently. He pulls the door open, leaning in. 

Constantine doesn’t stir when Bruce unfastens the seatbelt holding him in place. The heat radiating off the unconscious man’s face is glaringly obvious and, well,  _ in Bruce’s own face _ due to his current position leaning over him. The water on his skin had dried off relatively well under the Batmobile’s heating system. His blond hair is still damp, but no longer dripping. 

Bruce’s hand brushes against Constantine’s coat as he releases the seatbelt; it’s still soaked and cold. He’d have to get him out of these clothes and into the dry ones Alfred prepared immediately. 

A strand of dark hair falls into Bruce’s field of view, tickling his skin. With a huff, he blows it back. Helmet hair is honestly  _ irritating _ . He freezes when the burst of air causes Constantine to shift, his cheeks twitching. There’s a pause where Bruce holds his breath and contents himself with just...watching Constantine. He can see Constantine’s eyes fluttering rapidly beneath the lids. His lips are moving in silent half-formed words that Bruce can’t be bothered to decipher at the moment. They are chapped; skin peeling and raw in some areas from possible gnawing. A nervous, subconscious habit perhaps. 

He blinks several times, suddenly aware of how his face is mere inches away from Constantine’s. Bruce swallows; Batman’s cowl taunts him from its place on the driver’s seat. 

The closest he’s ever gotten to the other man had been back when they shook hands at their initial meeting. After that, Bruce made sure to sit on the opposite end of the room during team conferences. He supposes they may have gotten closer in the midst of battles to save the entire world from its doom. But those types of moments are accentuated with adrenaline, sweat, and lots of broken bones. 

To be fair, it’s not just with Constantine. Arguments he had with Clark, Diana, Dick, or anyone beforehand, in those moments the petty differences just resolve themselves. When they’re out there fighting for their lives and the lives of millions, nothing matters except trusting your teammate to have your back. It had taken Batman...it had taken  _ Bruce  _ so many years, so many conversations, so many injuries, so many deaths _ ,  _ for that lesson to stick. But Constantine…he’s not sure Constantine had ever learned it.

He moves back smoothly and frowns, eyes narrowed as he stares down at Constantine before considering the elevator across the spacious cavern space. He should really stop allowing his mind to take him off on detours; he had more pressing dilemmas at hand. Namely, how to take Constantine upstairs. 

He flexes his fingers, still frowning. Constantine’s completely out, and would be absolutely no help if he tries the ‘one arm over the shoulder’ approach. Dragging him seems a bit...no. Fireman’s carry? A bit of a spectacle, but only Alfred would see. Damian’s very strict on himself with his sleep schedule. His son would hopefully stay asleep, and out of the way tonight. Fireman, it is then. 

He nods, reaching down to grab Constantine by the arm and torso. 

Except that the moment he presses against Constantine’s side, he hears a groan of protest that sounds pained. He freezes again, staring at the other man. Constantine still doesn’t wake, but his face is scrunched up, brow twitching with some sweat starting to bead on his forehead. Bruce looks down, pulling his hand away from where it had touched. It’s faint, but through the damp dressed shirt, he sees some mottled pink.

He swears softly, moving back once again to run both hands through his hair with a groan. Of course, he had neglected to look for wounds carefully. He had stupidly assumed the only thing ailing the warlock had been the rain and cold. Constantine isn’t exactly a delicate human. He’s resourceful and very adept at saving his own skin. Rain and cold couldn’t have been the only factor in his abrupt downfall. Smart, Bruce. Very smart. 

“Okay...okay.” He voices out loud, taking a deep breath. Fireman’s carry is definitely out. Which means carrying him on his back is also ruled out. He doesn’t know how deep the sluggishly bleeding wound or wounds on Constantine’s chest are. His luck hasn’t exactly been the greatest lately, and he’s not keen on tempting fate into accidentally making the injuries even worse. 

Bruce drags a hand down his face before leaning back into the car. A hand wraps around Constantine’s back gently; the other reaches lower to hook under his knees. He takes a deep breath, and releases it as he lifts up. 

Ducking his own head, he makes sure Constantine’s head also clears the low ceiling of the car as he backs away from the vehicle. 

The weight strains at his arms slightly, but it’s easy to ignore. Bruce starts walking towards the elevator, careful not to jostle his hold too much. Constantine’s not exactly a lightweight, but given his height and appearance, he is much lighter than Bruce had been bracing for. In fact, he’s light enough for Bruce to grimly contemplate his diet and general lifestyle. He wouldn’t be too surprised if that consists of solely alcohol and cigarettes. 

His costume doesn’t allow him to feel the dampness, but Bruce can hear the soggy squishes every time he shifts his grip on Constantine. Getting him out of these clothes might still be a higher priority than any else at this point.

He’s grateful that the elevator is motion-sensored when it opens up to him without the need of a pressed button.

“Up.” He orders to the air, and the door closes. The machinery whirs softly as they ascend, rocky walls melting away into deeply colored wood after several seconds. 

He shifts again. Constantine’s head tilts with his movement, one cheek pressing against his chest. Bruce can see the soft puffs of breath fogging up his armor plating. Under the bright light of the elevator, he finally gets to see Constantine’s face clearly for the first time tonight. His stubble is dark and seems like it’s gone several days without a razor. His skin is flushed and dry, looking splotchy. Any spot not a warm red, is sickly pale. The bruising purple and blue under his closed eyes pop out like badly-done makeup. Deep lines carve themselves along the edges of the bags, framing them in an even more obvious light. His cheeks seem a bit gaunt; jawline sharp. Bruce takes in all the little details, forming his deductions in silence. 

He doesn’t think Constantine’s slept in days. He looks...old. Much older than a man in his early thirties should look. 

The elevator comes to a stop without fanfare, the doors opening silently. There’s a small screen on the back of the grandfather clock that is connected to a camera overlooking the study. It’s a nifty addition he put into place to assure there wouldn’t be unsuspecting guests in the room caught by surprise. The last thing Bruce wants is to walk out of the Cave one day and into a room full of Damian’s classmates who came over for a group project. 

_ “Father, I have not once brought other students into your home, much less your study.”  _ Damian had said, face patient and unamused. But Bruce’s point still stands. You never know. 

The screen shows Alfred, who is standing vigilantly by the study door. Bruce nudges a button with his elbow, and the grandfather clock swings open with a creak. 

Alfred’s eyes immediately dart to him, then dip down to regard the figure in his arms. Bruce can see the way his expression shifts into one of barely contained surprise. He wonders if Alfred recognizes Constantine. The butler had been present when Bruce was compiling his file, and he had certainly been around for the few occasions that Bruce made offhand comments about Constantine’s shenanigans at League meetings. But Alfred, ever the one for professionalism, remains proper. 

“Master Bruce, I have the dry clothes you’ve requested.” He lifts up the folded fabric in his gloved hands, and Bruce nods with a half-smile.

“I have also put last night’s supper to warm on the stove, on the occasion that your guest wakes up hungry.” 

“Sounds good, Al. Thank you.” 

“Where will you be treating Mr. Constantine’s injuries?” Alfred gestures towards the large case he had left on the table adjacent to the sofa. So Alfred does recognize him, Bruce muses to himself. He takes a moment to adjust his grip. Even if Constantine is lighter than expected, carrying another grown man like this for an extended period of time is causing his muscles to ache.

“Here would be fine. I don’t want to move him around too much anymore. I don’t...exactly have a good idea on how hurt he really is.” Bruce admits, stepping away from the opening in the wall. The clock automatically slides itself back in place, and he lowers Constantine down on the sofa as slowly as he can manage. His knees crack a bit as he bends, making him wince. 

“You don’t...so you were not present in whatever mess he had gotten into?” Bruce thinks Alfred sounds a bit relieved at that. 

“No. I just happened to be the one who found him afterward. I think he was about to get mugged when I did.” He frowns, looking down at the wrinkled front of the dressed shirt that had been harshly grabbed at. “And I don’t think he was even planning to fight back.” 

Alfred sniffs a bit at that, “A scouser that pulled his punches? That’s quite hard to imagine.” 

“Al.” Bruce shakes his head warningly, and Alfred dips his own in apology. He knows Alfred can sometimes put on airs, especially when it comes to other Brits. Usually, he’d be good at biting his tongue about it. Just because Constantine isn’t awake to defend himself, doesn’t mean Bruce is going to let it slide. 

“I will go check on the stew. Is there anything else you would like me to fetch?” Alfred places the bundle of clothes and towels on the table in one fluid motion. 

“Some cold water and maybe a few more towels. He’s feverish.” 

“Must be from the rain.” Alfred agrees, turning away from the two of them. “I will be back then.” 

With that, Alfred leaves the room, closing the study doors with a gentle click. 

Grunting, Bruce removes his own costume’s upper plating, leaving him in the thin fabric light-armor underneath. He flexes his shoulders, a soft groan of pleasure leaving his lips when it makes some satisfying cracks. Time to get to work. He lowers himself to the floor until he’s eye-level with Constantine’s unconscious face. He pulls off his gloves, one finger at a time, flexing them once they are freed from its protective prison. 

He removes Constantine’s shoes and socks, grimacing at how thoroughly soaked everything is. The trench coat is wriggled off along with the belt and slacks. Constantine hadn’t been limping when Bruce saw him, and he’s relieved to find no injuries to the legs. Bruce takes the towel, patting his skin dry. His underwear—boxer briefs, Bruce notes **—** looks dry. Good; Alfred hadn’t brought an extra pair. And Bruce isn’t sure he would’ve been comfortable sharing anyways.

Finally, he hunches over Constantine’s prone form, hands moving quickly to unbutton the shirt. Sweat builds on the back of his neck, making him shiver as he braces himself for...he’s not sure what. 

He sucks in a breath when he peels back the shirt from Constantine’s skin. He is first struck by the sheer number of tattoos that decorate his chest. They are inked in multiple shades of dark brown and black, indicating that they had been done at different periods of Constantine’s life, with different supplies and maybe even by different artists. Bruce wonders if he did any himself. 

Some are words, twisting like vines in a nonsensical flow of multiple languages. Some Bruce can translate, but they hold no real meaning to him. There are also shapes, overlapping with one another to form complicated symbols and glyphs. There are so many images squeezed onto this limited space of skin, Bruce thinks it should look hideous and utterly confusing. Instead, it somehow comes together beautifully; a perfect jigsaw puzzle where every inked word and shape is placed where its meant to be. 

Bruce wishes he could focus more of his attention on the breathless art that is Constantine’s seals and spells. However, the canvas is ruined by the ugly wounds that make his eyes widen. 

Welts, bumpy and raised in streaks of red and white. 

Large splotches of redden and blistered skin.  _ Burn marks.  _

Long streaks of cuts that barely penetrated the skin. They are placed randomly, drawing an abstract picture across his entire torso. Most of them are scabbed over with flaky pieces of skin hanging on, irritated and inflamed. A few are beaded with blood that smears across the few spots of unmarred skin. Bruises— some yellowed and old, others a deep purple red—adorn his ribs, shoulders and arms. 

Whoever did this hadn’t wanted it to be quick. 

“Okay..okay..” Bruce blows at the stray strand of hair in his face again. Bruce presses down on the bruisings on his chest. The ribs don’t feel broken or fractured, to his relief. They aren’t in the shape of anything in particular either; most likely bruises made from the familiar impact force trauma of getting tossed into walls and onto the ground. Batman is no stranger to those types of injuries.

He grabs the pair of black sweatpants from the pile Alfred had left behind. Bruce had told Alfred that Constantine is relatively his size, so the butler had smartly brought him some of the clothes that leaned on the larger end of his fit. Bruce picks up the baggy grey sweater as well. Clothes that are comfy, loose, and easy to put on. Helpful with injuries. Clothes that Bruce keeps hidden at the back of his wardrobe for the recuperation days where he just hides in the library to read away the afternoon in peace. He slides the pants onto Constantine’s body, keeping his hands steady to not jar the other man too much. He’s a bit taller than Constantine, Bruce realizes when the fabric bunches up past the man’s ankles. 

He grabs the first aid kit off the table, placing it on the ground beside him. The isopropanol seeps through the towel he’s soaking thoroughly. It’s cold on his skin. 

Constantine barely flinches when Bruce begins wiping at the cuts and burns, removing old and new blood. The chill of the antiseptic contrasts strangely with the heat radiating from Constantine’s fevered skin. He works in relative silence, the only noise in the room coming from the soft ticking of the clock and their own breathing. 

Bruce drops the towel once the cuts appear clean. He unscrews the lid off several different types of creams **—** antibiotic, burn relief, and analgesic. The process of applying the correct cream for the appropriate wound takes a while, and Bruce loses track of time. His mind wanders aimlessly, thoughtless as his fingers massage cool circles into Constantine’s wounds. It’s...peaceful.

When every wound is medicated, he rises to his feet. He pushes Constantine into a sitting position, checking his back and sides for any more hidden cuts. There are none, and Bruce settles himself down on the couch, letting Constantine lean on him as he works on bandaging his torso tightly. The warlock shivers under his ministrations, skin clammy from cold sweat. 

Bruce clips the last wrapping in place and helps Constantine into the sweater by adjusting his arms until the fabric engulfs the smaller man. He pulls it over Constantine’s head, noticing the trembling ease now that his skin isn’t exposed to the Manor’s cool air. Bruce hesitates for a moment, before lowering Constantine until his head of damp hair is lying across his thighs. It just seems...right. 

He takes a moment to judge his own handiwork. The bandages are crisp and orderly, hiding all the damage that had been done. Constantine shifts, expression troubled. He turns his head, and Bruce stiffens when Constantine’s face presses against his stomach with a soft moan. His forehead is unbearable hot against him, and he can feel Constantine’s lips moving softly, muttering incomprehensibly in his sleep. Bruce rubs at his eyes, trying to will the throbbing to subside. He glares blearily at the grandfather clock as it chimes five times. It’s going to be a long night. 

There’s a knock at the study door. After a beat, it opens. Alfred comes back in with a small push-cart. Bruce sees a mini chafing dish with two sets of silverware, a pitcher of water with glass cups, a small basin of water, and more towels. 

“This should keep supper warm.” Alfred gives Bruce a small smile which Bruce can’t help but return tiredly. 

“Smells amazing, Al.” Bruce reaches an arm out, ready to stand when he remembers the weight on his lap. Alfred stifles a laugh under a mock cough, waving a hand at Bruce to stay seated. He reaches for a towel, dipping it into the cold water before wringing it dry. He hands it to Bruce, who takes it gratefully. 

He can feel Alfred’s eyes on him as he tilts Constantine’s head away from his stomach, wiping the grime and sweat from his face. Alfred takes the dirtied towel back, handing him a fresh, wet one. Bruce places this one on Constantine’s forehead, listening to the sigh that leaves his lips at the sudden respite of coolness. 

“Are his injuries severe?” Alfred inquires, face blank as he watches Bruce’s actions. 

“They’re not pretty, Al. But they could’ve been worse...It looks more like torture than a fight.” 

“...I wasn’t aware that the supernatural are in the business of physical torture.” 

Bruce frowns, Constantine’s lost and unfocused eyes flashing through his mind. “It might’ve been more than that.” 

“I see.” Alfred mirrors his expression, unable to turn his attention away from the unconscious man either. He blinks, clearing his throat. “The dish should keep the food warm for at least two hours. Will you be alright here, Master Bruce?” 

“Oh um..yes of course.” Bruce’s expression softens, “Sorry Al, it’s so late…”

“Oh nonsense Bruce, I don’t mind at all.” Alfred shakes his head, hands moving to reorganize the plates that are already in perfect order. “In fact, I worry for the day you and Young Master Damian will no longer need me around.” 

“That will never happen, Al.” Bruce says firmly, his grip on Constantine’s shoulder tightening. He searches Alfred’s face until their eyes meet and he pours all his sincerity into his gaze “You’re family. There will never be a day to us where you are not needed.”

Alfred appears speechless for a moment, mouth slightly agape. The hands on the tableware pausing. 

He looks away, swallowing, “I...thank you...Bruce. It means a lot to me for you to say it.” 

“I’ll be alright here Al, get some rest.” Bruce smiles, glancing down at Constantine. He still looks flushed, head tossing side to side. 

“You might be here for a while then. Don’t forget to get some rest yourself.” Alfred picks up the water basin and clean towels, moving them within reach for Bruce. He pushes the cart until it’s close enough for Bruce to grab at with minimal stretching. 

“I’ll be fine. Once his fever breaks, maybe he’ll wake up. Then I can ask him what happened, and maybe get him to one of the guest rooms upstairs.” 

“I will prepare the one near the library before I retire for the night.”

“Thanks Al, you’re the best.” 

“You’re a good man, Bruce.” Alfred pauses on his way to the door, glancing back down at Constantine with an expression that Bruce can’t place. “Don’t let anything or anyone change that. Good night.” 

With that, the room doors close with a click, and Bruce is left to think alone. 

He picks up the wet towel, making a soft “hn” at how it’s already warm. He dips it back in the basin, twisting it dry. 

Bruce places it over Constantine’s forehead again before leaning back with a sigh. He’s exhausted, he concedes to himself, but not exactly sleepy. He had been doing this on top of a long day of board meetings and evening patrols. He’s glad his schedule is free today; he didn’t think he’d be able to put a coherent sentence together in a few hours. 

He lifts his hand from Constantine’s damp hair—  _ when had he started carding through it? _ — and pulls at a small compartment on his leg armor. He removes his cell phone from its hiding spot, unlocking it. He had some research to do. 

Several minutes pass by in silence, cut by the muted taps of his fingers on the screen. This particular phone is connected to the BatComputer in the Cave, giving him access to sites and databases normal people would have no business in. He reads through his old profile on Constantine. 

Mother died during his birth. Abusive father. Welfare reports that didn’t account to any action being taken against Thomas Constantine. Disappeared from home at age 15. Record of enrollment in a cosmetology program that showed no indication of completion. Juvie records, prison records, psychiatric ward records. Newspaper clippings, a Kregslist advert. Bruce scrolls through them all. 

After going through the old stuff, he opens up new browsers. Surely there would be something new that might point to Constantine’s current condition. Maybe an email or messages around the forums. People love to talk. 

And Bruce finds it. News reports, police reports, magic conspiracy boards. 

_ The Newcastle Crew.  _

_ Young adults. _

_ Exorcism gone wrong. _

_ Horrific Murder.  _

_ Rituals. _

_ Suicide. _

_ Demon _

_ Unidentified killer. _

**_Astra Logue._ **

The dichotomy of information from both official reports steeped in logic and information from the magic attuned communities is jarring. Bruce’s honed habits tell him to believe the police reports, but his instincts know it’s never that simple with John Constantine’s involvement. 

Through the reports, he finds out that Constantine had admitted himself into Ravenscar Psychiatric Facility...a month ago. He glances down at the other man. There is no record of release. 

His mind races as he reads the evaluation and notes that have been photocopied into the Facility’s databases.  _ Psychotic depression characterized by delusions and hallucinations. Post-traumatic stress and mood swings. Often turns aggravated and violent, resulting in need for sedation. Multiple treatments of electric shock therapy _ ...good fuck, this place is a nightmare. 

But he...he hasn’t left. There’s no record of it. Not of sanctioned release or escape. ‘ _ No flight risk’ _ is written on the bottom. He had admitted himself into care, why would he leave? And how did he get from North Yorkshire to Gotham? 

Possibilities and explanations pop up in Bruce’s head. He might have had another psychotic break and ran. Psychiatric wards aren’t exactly equipped to handle magic, he might’ve just teleported. That’s a skill he knows magicians can use. They had made good use of it during Justice League battles to coordinate attacks. 

But...he stares at Constantine’s bare collarbone and sees the white of the bandages peeking out. What about those wounds that look like the result of torture? Did...did Ravenscar do that? Which brings him to the ultimate question:

_ Do I send him back?  _

Bruce looks up from Constantine’s chest to his face. Dark eyes meet hazy brown ones.

Their eyes are meeting.

Constantine’s awake. 

Bruce’s lips feel dry; he doesn’t know what to say. 

“Constantine…” He begins, voice trailing off. What should he say?

In the end, he doesn’t have to say anything. Calloused hands reach up to cup his face, and his mind goes blank. No words grace his brain.

“Sorry…’m sorry.” Bruce hears Constantine’s voice for the first time in years. It’s quiet, scratchy, rough, and sounds so incredibly pained and full of  _ grief _ . 

“Constantine I—”

“John.” Constantine interrupts, unfocused eyes roaming his face with a look that tells Bruce his mind isn’t all here. His cheeks are red, and the hands holding onto his cheeks are shaking and sweaty, barely strong enough to hold themselves up. The wet towel had slid off his face and onto the edge of the sofa. He looks delirious and half unhinged. 

“John...you’re ill. You have a fever.” Bruce says calmly, moving to grab the water pitcher. 

“Wait don’t—”

He freezes at the sudden desperation in both Constantine’s eyes and voice. The hands tighten almost painfully.

“Don’t go...don’t go. ‘M sorry, I didn’t mean fer things ta ‘appen that way. Don’t leave.  _ Pleas _ e.” His voice cracks, and there are tears welling at the corner of those foggy eyes.  _ Jesus,  _ Bruce thinks. What is he supposed to do? 

“I’m getting you water, John. It’s right here on the table, I’m not leaving.” Bruce hesitates, one hand hovering before he clamps it around one of Constantine’s wrist, not letting go. With the other, he pours a glass of water. He grabs the glass along with a singular packet of Tylenol from the medkit. He waves it at Constantine’s face but Constantine doesn’t turn away from his vigilant watch. It’s as if he’s afraid Bruce would disappear the moment he blinks. 

“John, drink the water and take the pills. You’ll feel better.” Bruce coaxes, letting go of Constantine’s wrist to wrestle the foil off the medicine. He presses them against his lips, humming something positive when Constantine parts them. He lets Constantine drink from the glass, watching his throat bob as he gulps down half the glass in seconds. 

Bruce takes the glass from his hands, placing it back on the table. He picks up the discarded towel, placing it back on Constantine’s forehead. It slides slightly, covering his eyes as well. 

Neither of them move to fix it. 

He’s silent, ears trained on the way Constantine’s breathing hitches erratically. He doesn’t want to think about how it becomes steadier the moment his hand starts running through the sweaty blond locks again.

“Des...I’m sorry.” Constantine finally says, voice so quiet that Bruce nearly missed it. His hand stops, and he can feel Constantine tense against his legs. 

“...I know.” Bruce manages. 

He watches Constantine’s shoulders sag as his body relaxes. They sit together without speaking anymore. Bruce massages his fingers through the hair and into Constantine’s scalp. He feels some bumps and cuts along the way, rubbing at them gently. 

By the time Constantine nods off again, Bruce feels ready to sleep too. 

He falls back against the sofa, eyes on the ceiling even as his hand continues its repeated movements. 

He had so much to think about. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, a soft bastard, imagining John in one of Bruce’s baggy sweaters and a pair of sweatpants: u w u 
> 
> You may have guessed it, but uh yeah...the Time Stone took John to Gotham in the past. Around the time right before NBC Constantine starts, so the John of this current time is in RavenScar. This Batman/Bruce hasn’t done what he’s done in ArrowVerse yet. 
> 
> Poor John. I’ve had a bad fever a while back. It really does get hard to like, process anything at all. And it’s super hard to remember all the weird shit you said when you had supposedly woken up several times during the height of the fever. 
> 
> Uh…kinda lowkey want to make this more than just colleagues -> friends ouo;; Thoughts? 
> 
> Hope this chapter does well to satisfy until the next one x3 Please let me know what you thought of it! Comments are appreciated, loved, and great motivators. See you all soon <3


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